


to the victor;

by glitteringconstellations



Series: Whump Bingo [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, M/M, Whump Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 04:11:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14228958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringconstellations/pseuds/glitteringconstellations
Summary: Four days and three nights in and still twelve Tributes lived, the four of them included. Keith hadn’t even dared to dream of an alliance, coming from 12. But then Lance had all but plastered himself to Keith’s side since the first day of training. The other Tributes didn’t like that. Maybe Lance did it on purpose, to paint a target on Keith’s back.Keith didn’t think so.(Lance cradles Keith in his arms.)





	to the victor;

**Author's Note:**

> Written for whump bingo, slot N2: collapsing or falling asleep and looking far younger. Took that prompt and ran with it, oops. Figured I'd share since it's the obligatory once-per-fandom Hunger Games AU.

They were all exhausted. 

Four days and three nights in and still twelve Tributes lived, the four of them included. They’d had a very close call with the Career Lotor from District 1, the little cavern tucked between the boulders by the river’s edge their only saving grace. Keith hadn’t even dared to dream of an alliance, coming from 12, but he’d found one in the three souls cowering with him here in the dark; Pidge from 3–Keith remembered her brother being the runner up in the previous Games. There was Hunk, the unfortunate bastard from 7 who was Reaped in his last year alongside his kid sister, who was Reaped in her first year. She didn’t make it past the bloodbath. 

And then there was Lance. He couldn’t tell you what had drawn him to the lanky, cocky kid from 4, but he’d known from the start that he wasn’t a Career. There was a tenacity, hidden behind that handsome smirk. He’d be popular with the sponsors, Shiro warned him, which was dangerous in its own right. But then Lance had all but plastered himself to Keith’s side since the first day of training. The other Tributes didn’t like that. Maybe Lance did it on purpose, to paint a target on Keith’s back. 

Keith didn’t think so. Not with the way Lance held his hand during the trap building lesson, pressing up behind him and guiding his hands to properly tie the noose. Not with the way his eyes glistened with mirth when Keith had taken his lead and sparred with him, teaching him proper stance with a blade. 

And certainly not now, with the way Lance held Keith’s head in his lap, working his fingers through Keith’s matted hair so tenderly, humming a lullaby ever so softly. The same fingers that had taken the meager amount of salve his sponsor had sent them and rubbed it into the burns from Lotor’s bombs on Keith’s back. 

“ _May you bring love, and may you bring happiness… be loved in return, to the end of your days_ ,” Lance sang. “ _Now fall off to sleep, I’m not meaning to keep you…”_  


Keith let his eyes drift close. He could hear Pidge and Hunk talking lowly amongst themselves behind them, tending to their own wounds with the rest of Lance’s salve. Laying on his back hurt, but the salve had numbed the pain greatly. And he really just couldn’t bring himself to move from the comfort that Lance’s presence offered. 

“ _May there always be angels to watch over you… to guard you and keep you safe from all harm_ …”   


It was in the tenuous safety of the cavern, with Lance’s voice in his ears, that he let the darkness carry him down into sleep. 

* * *

Lance watched with a fond smile as Keith’s breath evened out, his lines of his face relaxing from where they’d been scrunched up near permanently. Keith was 17, same as him, in his last year of eligibility for the Reaping. And yet sleeping here in Lance’s embrace, he looked remarkably younger than his age would suggest. Lance couldn’t help but wonder what Keith might have looked like in his youth, before the tesserae claimed him for the Games.

A breathy, humorless laugh escaped him. What shitty luck. The odds were never in his favor. 

He gently brushed the bangs from where they’d fallen into Keith’s eyes. He wished he’d taken the time to study them, if only just a bit more. Time. Something they all lacked. 

He twisted around to face Pidge and Hunk, careful not to jostle Keith too much. “You both can sleep,” he offered quietly. “I’ll take point.” 

“You sure?” Hunk said, capping the empty salve tin and handing it back to Lance. They might be able to use it for something later. Lance nodded–Pidge looked like she would pass out any second, and Hunk was not far behind. “Thanks, dude. Wake us if you get tired and want to switch.”   


“Sure.”   


He watched them only briefly as they settled, Pidge curling into Hunk’s massive frame as he draped himself over the tiny girl. Only once he was sure they were sound asleep did he let out another, heavy sigh. 

He gently scoot himself out from under Keith, cradling his head until it rested on the stone beneath them. Only then, did he lift up his shirt to inspect the festering wound in his side. It burned like hellfire itself had scorched him, the serrated edge of Lotor’s blade catching him just above the jut of his hipbone. A flesh wound, sure, barely a scratch. But Lance had felt it, the lethargy seeping into his limbs, the lead weight settling into the pits of his lungs, mere minutes after the blade had kissed his skin. The fire started shortly after. 

Lance glanced back down at the sleeping Keith again. It was a blessing Keith wouldn’t be awake for this. No amount of salve would save him from the nightlock poison that the blade had been bathed in. Not an instant death as it would have been if he’d ingested the berries the poison was made from, but a slow and agonizing one. 

There wasn’t much to leave Keith. A second jar of salve he’d secreted away, his harpoon. He tucked the jar into Keith’s own bag, beneath the sparse rations they’d collected. Laid the harpoon next to Keith’s blade.

His message was written on a leaf, the stain of a juniberry on a twig serving as his ink. A short few words, nothing more– _you have to win._  He tucked it into the loose fist Keith made, closed his fingers tighter around it. Then he laid down beside him, tucked himself into Keith’s side, and slotted his fingers between those on Keith’s free hand. Keith’s grip tightened on his in his sleep. 

The others woke to the sound of a cannon.


End file.
